


The Godfather Of Soho

by WorseOmens



Series: Good Omens Outsider POVs [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale can be scary when he wants to be, Aziraphale is a bastard, Crowley is a good husband who supports his angel's shenanigans, Cryptid Aziraphale, F/F, Irish Folklore, M/M, Swearing, The Mob, cryptid Crowley, organised crime, outsider pov, snek - Freeform, the Fair Folk, the mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:53:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21545587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorseOmens/pseuds/WorseOmens
Summary: AZ Fell & Co's looks like a front for something illegal. Both the mob and the police have a thing or two to say about it.(Or: two Irish mobsters bicker over the nature of their new competitor; meanwhile, two detectives follow a trail of terrified petty criminals back to an antique bookshop)(Follows on from 'Never Judge Books By Their...?' It's not necessary to have read that one first, but it will help for context in the second part)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley, Ineffable Husbands - Relationship, OC Relationships
Series: Good Omens Outsider POVs [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545919
Comments: 211
Kudos: 2044
Collections: Courts GO Re-Reads, Good Omens (Complete works), Good Omens For Thy Soul





	1. Mr Fell, The Local Bastard

Aziraphale's tax returns were pristine. That was how it had all started, really. HMRC looked into the shop and found nothing obviously amiss, only that the man they sent to check couldn't seem to drop the whole thing quick enough. It only grew from there. AZ Fell & Co's became something of a joke in the regional complaints office, always being flagged up for an investigation by some rookie who didn't quite understand that it just wasn't the done thing. Well, usually it was, but not for AZ Fell's. 

HMRC weren't the only ones to notice Aziraphale's strange business model. Customers came and went, with precious few ever managing to make off with a book. As any Soho native will tell you, though, the shop will never go out of business. Some way, somehow, old Mr Fell is turning a profit in there. It's just not from the books. Stories like this tend to get out eventually. All it took was for the wrong human to get wind of all the whispers, and start building their own picture.

"So, you're tellin' me," said Clyde, a cigarette hanging from his lips, "that this place is some sorta front?"

Morgan, his younger sister, sneered with a hand of cards fanned out under her nose. "What else is it gonna be, a fuckin' circus?" she said, her sharp eyes judging his expression. Poker nights between the two of them were business meetings masquerading as social calls; the two of them kept organised crime in London under their thumbs, and only trod on each other's toes when they really meant to. 

Clyde curled his lip. "Don't get smart," he said.

"One of us has to be," she shot back, pushing more of her chips into the centre of the table. "So, he yours?"

"Who?"

"The bookshop owner," she said irritably. 

"Course not. Why would I use a bookshop as a front?" he scoffed, taking swig from his glass. He matched his sister's chips. "S'fuckin stupid."

"That's never stopped you before," she said, scowling as he blew a puff of smoke into her face in retaliation. "Look, I only ask 'cause one of my guys said that he spotted AJ lurking around in the back room."

Clyde raised a brow. "You been spying 'cause you thought it was one of my places?" he said, narrowing his eyes. 

She ignored him. "Didn't you hear what I just said? He saw AJ," she repeated, sitting up to lean further across the table. "AJ Crowley."

"The prick who smashed up Pa's car that time?" he said, bristling slightly as the words sunk in. The muscles in his arm twitched, his clumsy tattoos seeming to crawl with the motion. "Why'd he let him get away with that, again?"

She shrugged. "Dunno. He was scared of him, I think," she said with a sneer. She laid her cards down on the table, making her brother curse violently and throw down his own in a dead loss. 

"What's so scary about him?" he asked, watching enviously as she reaped her rewards. "I heard he was just some scrawny lowlife."

"You know what Pa was like, before he kicked the bucket," she said, stacking her chips. "I said we shoulda skinned AJ for what he'd done, but he told me I ought not to go sticking my hand in bear traps like that. He reckoned AJ was some sort of bad spirit, like those evil fairies he used to tell us about when we were kids." 

"What a nutter," he said, finishing his glass.

"Hey look, we agree on something," she said, checking her phone idly. "Look, I gotta go. I'll send a couple guys into the shop, see if we can't remind this freak who runs the show. If he's trying to set something up, we'll burn it to the ground."

"Agreed," Clyde grunted, taking a long drag of his cigarette. 

Aziraphale went about his business as usual. As far as he concerned, nothing of interest (besides his marriage to Crowley) had happened since the apocalypse-that-didn't, and that was just the way he liked it. He was reading one of his papyrus scrolls at the counter when the bell rang, and he did his damnedest to ignore it. Heavy footfalls made their way toward him. Somebody cleated their throat, and he had to look up. Two lanky, darkly-dressed men with sunken eyes and guns stuffed into their waistbands stood in front of him. They weren't demons, though, so he wasn't especially fazed.

"Can I help you?" he asked, venemously polite. He pointedly ignored the firearms by their waists, despite the fact they were blatantly on show for a reason. 

"Yeah, we were just in the market for a book," the first one said, who Aziraphale mentally christened Brute. He leaned forward hard on the counter, making the angel lean back in mild distaste. 

"You sell em, don't ya?" said the second man, who Aziraphale named Hooligan. 

"To those who will respect them properly, yes," he said, with a hollow smile. They weren't the first humans to have come in trying to scare him, and they wouldn't be the last.

Hooligan let out a long whistle, taking a thick copy of HP Lovecraft from a nearby stack. "Must be tricky then, making a profit."

"I manage," he said icily. 

"You don't happen to have help, do ya?" said Brute, his warm breath hitting Aziraphale's face. "Help making money on the side, I mean. Cause y'know that would be illegal, right?"

"Oh yeah, and we'd hate to see a guy like you getting into any trouble," Hooligan said, pushing over the stack he'd been looking at. He grinned. "Whoops. Real easy for things to get damaged in here, ain't it?"

Aziraphale glared at them, his hands curled into fists on the desk. "Indeed. Customers have a terrible habit of getting hurt," he said tightly. "They just don't watch where they're putting their feet."

The two of them looked mildly taken aback. "You threatenin' us, poof?" Brute snarled, breaking the pretence of friendliness. 

"It's _threatening_ , with a G," he replied primly, raising his chin. "And yes, I am."

"You're gonna regret that, fa - " Hooligan began, reaching for his waistband. His hand landed on nothing. He glanced down, scanning the floor, looking behind him. "What the fuck? Where's my gun?"

Aziraphale smiled thinly. "Butterfingers," he said lightly, having just miracled it into his desk drawer. "You must have dropped it." 

Brute rolled his eyes, reaching for his own. He pressed the barrel under Aziraphale's chin, and was slightly disconcerted to find that the white-haired man didn't even flinch. "Listen up," he said fiercely. "You're gonna go tell whoever you're working for that they're gonna shut this place down. We know this ain't a bookshop."

"Whoever told you that?" he said calmly, making no attempt to move the gun. 

"Doesn't matter," he said. "All you need to know is that the Murphy family run this quarter. You work for them, or you get an appointment with a crowbar. Got it?"

"The gun would be quicker," he said, smiling. Brute blinked.

"What?"

"The gun. You're pointing it at me right now," he reiterated, tapping lightly on it with one manicured nail.

Brute shook himself, his expression hardening. "You asked for it," he snapped, pulling the trigger.

There was a click. Instead of blowing Aziraphale's brains out across the wall, a small trickle of water ran down his neck. Brute drew back, staring at the gun. He pulled the trigger again. A jet of water shot out, landing on the floorboards. He gaped.

"How the fuck..?"

"My, you two are woefully underprepared for a mob intimidation, aren't you?" Aziraphale commented, taking out a nail file from a drawer. He began to work on his already-perfect nails, just to irritate them, carelessly ignoring his their rising frustration. "One unarmed and one with only a water pistol! Things must have changed since my day."

They stared at him, frozen. "What... what do we tell the Murphys?" Hooligan whispered, gesturing helplessly at the angel.

"I have a suggestion," he spoke up, not lifting his head from his nail file. "Let them know that I will not be closing my shop, thank you very much. Oh, and send them my love. Yes?"

Morgan was seething. Clyde watched her storm back and forth across his living room, smoking idly. The tobacco smoke drifted through the dim flat, the visibility helped only by the uniform white furnishings. 

"Sends his love!" she yelled furiously, snatching a crystal glass from the table and launching it at the wall. It shattered to the floor, and Clyde watched with disinterest. "I cannot believe the balls on this guy. _Sends his love,_ what kind of a response is that? Clyde? Are even listening to me?"

He shrugged. "You're freaking out over nothing," he said, blowing out a puff of smoke. "He had his warning, and he ignored it. Just have him killed and forget about it."

She sighed, gripping her short hair with one hand. "Right," she said gruffly, taking out her phone. Her thumb hovered over the screen, a smile tugging at the edge of her mouth. "Who d'you think? Bernie?"

"Oof, that's cruel," he chuckled. "Do it."

Bernie was their right-hand man. He'd seen everything London had to offer, right to the very worst, and half the time he'd only been looking in the mirror. He was six-foot-seven and built like a tank, riddled with steroids, and the blowtorch was his trademark. He should have eaten the delicate bookkeeper for breakfast, but then again, no doubt Satan had expected the same. 

He wasn't sure quite how it happened. He remembered making a few threats before meeting a pair of docile, sympathetic blue eyes, and the next thing he knew he was being given tea and biscuits. He'd poured out his heart to Mr Fell. His life hadn't been an easy one, and he didn't really want to hurt people, but how else was he supposed to look after his baby girl? Leaving the Murphys' so-called family wasn't as easy as a resignation letter. He'd fallen into the life, and now he couldn't get out without risking his daughter. Mr Fell had understood. 

He'd been given two sets of false papers, apparently out of thin air, and told to get out of the country. Mr Fell gave him a guarantee that he would be safe, and he could start fresh (though he did recommend giving a full confession to a vicar at some point, and to probably start going to church). 

Bernie's abrupt disappearance sent ripples through the whole mob. He'd been a familiar face to anyone who'd had dealings with the Murphy family, and his loyalty had always been unquestionable. Rumours spread like wildfire. He'd been killed, no question. Thing is, his infant daughter had gone missing too, and that was the real red flag. Only serious heavy-hitters went for their targets' families too, especially the babies. It was quickly beginning to appear that there was a new boss on the rise in Soho, and no one knew a damn thing about him. The curious and the brave started to hang around outside AZ Fell's, hoping to glean any nugget of information that might help them into the Murphys' good books. Some of them got too close, were also never seen again.

For those who came back, they learnt a few things. First, AJ Crowley seemed to live in the shop too. He was often coming and going, bringing back brown paper bags, takeaway cups and bakery boxes. Sure, he could be bringing food into the shop, or he could be stocking the back with whatever it is they were selling. Drugs, probably. Clyde and Morgan initially thought that he must be the one in charge, but that didn't seem right. Their spies told them that he doted on Mr Fell, opening car doors for him, pulling out chairs, bringing gifts and draping himself over him at every opportunity. It didn't seem like the behaviour of the man-in-charge. At best, they were partners and equals. At worst, Crowley was the in-house entertainment. Clyde found the latter option far more amusing.

Second, Mr Fell was generally amiable. His neighbours thought well of him, generally speaking, though they did say he was a bit of an odd duck. There were a few stories of strange men and other shady goings-on in the shop. No one could say much for sure, though. Morgan suspected that most everyone on the street had been bought into silence.

Thirdly, somewhere in that shop, there was an enormous, almost leviathanesque, snake. This was mostly hearsay, but it was the kind of detail that made people talk. Some bright spark reckoned that if you pissed off Mr Fell bad enough, he'd feed you to that snake. It was a pretty brutal execution, you had to admit, if it were true. There was some debate about whether you'd be cut into little pieces first, or if you'd just be stripped, zip-tied and left alone with the hungry serpent. 

The Murphy siblings weren't the most level-headed people, nor the smartest, nor the most tactful, but even they knew when to hang back. Their father's stories were suddenly coming back to them. Old man Murphy, the one who'd begun their crime syndicate in the first place, had been a deeply superstitious man. He'd seen Crowley for what he was. He reckoned that if either of his kids had any brains, they'd know when they were facing down something otherworldly. If they ever did, he'd always hoped they'd pay their respects and steer clear. 

Now, Morgan and Clyde didn't always follow the old traditions. Not consciously, at least... They lacked the charming mystique of an old Irish silver fox, and spinning yarns about the supernatural just wouldn't fly for them like it had for their father. They'd learned to abandon the myths passed down to them in their childhood. No matter how hard they tried, though, they couldn't shake the belief in them. It clung to them like a leech.

"You're insane," Morgan hissed, jabbing a finger at her brother over the table. Clyde had a weathered old book in his hands, written in their family's native tongue. He hardly remembered how to read it, but he could muddle through. 

"I ain't nuts, and you know I ain't," he said. He waved the book under her nose. "Pa was right. There's fairies in London, and they're livin' in that shop. He found AJ, and now we've gone and stumbled across another one."

"Even if that were true, what're the bastards doing this far into a city?" she said, the chair screeching as she stood up to pace restlessly around the room. "They should be off in the woods somewhere, stealing babies and striking dodgy deals..."

"Bernie's kid went missing," Clyde pointed out, his sharp green eyes following her across the kitchen. The harsh overhead light cast deep shadows in the hollows of his cheeks. "And if they're running some sort of front out of that shop, that sounds like dodgy dealing to me."

Morgan stopped, her hands tucked tightly beneath her arms. She sucked in a deep breath, the familiar scent of family encasing her. Their life had always been an uphill battle, but they'd done it together. Clyde was an idiot, but he was her idiot. She owed it to him to listen, especially when he began to voice the fears that had been bubbling up from her subconscious ever since the first intimidation failed. 

"I hear ya," she said, swiping a tongue over her lips. "But they're s'posed to live in the woods, or the moors."

"Books are made of paper. Paper's made of wood, and wood comes from trees," Clyde said, in a rare moment of semi-coherent logic. He ran a finger along the spine of the book in his hand. "As far as he's concerned, he probably is in the forest."

She cocked a brow. "Books are made of trees... That's a bit of a technicality."

"Fair folk thrive on that shit," he said, sliding the book across the table toward her. "I found gran's old book on 'em. What happens if you make 'em angry, all that stuff."

"And? What's it say?" she asked, picking it up and idly flicking through the thick sepia pages. 

"It basically says we're fucked," he said, clasping one hand tightly over his other fist. His white knuckles betrayed his calm demeanour. "We did everything we ain't supposed to. We bothered 'em, we ignored the warnings, we trespassed in their land, threatened their property..."

She grimaced, cursing under her breath as dread trickled down her spine. "What do we do, Clyde?" she murmured, looking over to him with a kind of vulnerability he hadn't seen in her since she was a toddler. 

"There's somethin' called the Creideamh Sí," he said. "It's the fairy faith. People used to give offerings to the fairies, to try to calm 'em down. It's all in the book."

"If anyone finds out about this... we'll be a laughing stock," she said, paling at the thought. 

"No one needs to know."

"And you think it's gonna work?" she said nervously, finding the right page and scanning her eyes down the list of traditional items to give the fae.

"We ain't got another plan, Morgs," he said. "We pay our dues, or we're cursed."

Crowley and Aziraphale arrived at the bookshop at around mid-morning, having spent the night watching a meteor shower by the coast. It had been a magical night, and they were each buzzing with love and happiness. Even the light smog in the air didn't bother them. In many ways, the wicker basket on the doorstep was a pleasant surprise.

"What's this?" Aziraphale wondered aloud, picking up the picnic basket curiously.

Crowley narrowed his eyes, reminded a little too much of the night he delivered Adam. "Be careful, angel," he urged. "Could be a trap."

Heedlessly, the angel lifted the lid, peeking inside. "Oh!"

"What?" the demon said, suddenly tense.

On the other side of the street, Morgan lurked in an alley. She'd been anxious to hang around, just to make sure that they took the basket. She'd been awake for hours, having dropped their gifts there at around three in the morning. She'd never been so nervous. The many years she'd spent denying the old folklore had pushed it away at arm's length, only for it now to crash over her like a freezing ocean wave.

She watched the white fairy, Mr Fell, pick up the basket. The black one seemed reluctant to acknowledge it. Only the brick wall of the alley kept her standing. She desperately willed the two creatures to bring it into the shop, into their realm, which would signify their acceptance. To her relief, Mr Fell opened the door to his shop, bringing the offering inside with him, trailed by his husband. As the door swung shut behind them, she collapsed to the ground in relief, and took out her phone to call Clyde. 

Inside, the not-quite-fae were unpacking the basket. Crowley had relaxed slightly once he was sure that there was nothing explosive, demonic or angelic lurking inside. The basket was packed with fine silks, cushioning several hand-wrapped parcels of greaseproof paper. One contained a variety of berries, another enclosed a selection of fine artisan baked goods. A few large, deep red apples sat alongside them. There was an old-fashioned glass bottle of jersey milk beside a separate jar of Manuka honey, leaning against the far wall of the basket.

"This is all very nice, angel," Crowley said, turning over the jar of honey in his hands. He looked up, nose wrinkled in confusion. "But why?"

"Why question an act of kindness, dear?" he asked, humming in delight as he took a bite from one of the patisseries. "Oh, that is scrumptious..."

"I'm just saying, why give an expensive hamper to the local mad bookseller?" he said, a smile in his voice. He got a sharp glance for that, which he ignored in favour of poking his nose back into the silk-lined basket. "A-ha, here we go. Knew you must have missed something..."

Crowley plucked out a sheet of embossed paper, neatly folded with a wax seal on the front. He cracked it open, unfolded it and began to read aloud as Aziraphale continued sampling the goods on offer. 

"Dear Mr Fell and Mr Crowley," he said, sliding off his glasses to read it better. "We offer this basket for your appeasement, in light of our disrespectful actions in recent weeks. We hope that everything is to your liking. You have made your message abundantly clear, and we apologise for our misconduct in your territory. In future, we will withdraw all operations from the Soho area and remain neutral to your activities. Deepest respect and humblest regards... _Morgan and Clyde Murphy?_ "

Aziraphale abruptly stopped chewing. "Hm?"

"The mob bosses?" he crowed, fixing his husband with a look that was squarely between 'deeply confused' and 'swooning'. "Since when did you have any dealings with organised crime?"

He swallowed, brushing crumbs from the edges of his mouth. "I don't," he said haughtily, re-wrapping the offerings. " _They_ were bothering _me_."

"But I've met these guys. I had a lucky escape from their dad years back, but I reckon it was my eyes that scared him off," he said, scrunching up his nose and re-reading the letter. "What were they doing here?"

"I believe they think that my shop is a front for something nefarious," he said with a shrug, taking the basket toward the back room. "They've been sending in their people and poking around for weeks."

"And you didn't tell me?" he said in exasperation, following him.

"It was nothing to worry about. I can take care of myself," he said, depositing the offerings in the kitchen. "I just gave them a little fright here and there, is all."

"A little fright? Angel, these are real, hardened criminals, and they're - they're sending you gift baskets and apology notes!" he exclaimed, gesturing at the food. "What did you _do?_ "

Aziraphale shot him a radiant smile. "I didn't harm a soul, my dear."

Crowley stared at him, wide-eyed, as he headed back out of the kitchen. "A - Angel!" he spluttered, snapping himself out of his stupor to chase after him. "Angel, that's not an answer! Get back here, you bastard! Tell me!"


	2. Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, this hasn’t been proof read at all but it’s way longer than I expected and bit overdue already if I’m honest. Just wanted to get it out for you to enjoy, so... enjoy!

Wilson and Carlton were up to their necks in overtime. Organised crime was spreading through London like a rot, and not much could be done to stop it. The underlings were terrified, more so of their bosses than of the police, so even the arrests they'd made so far didn't amount to much. The office was starting to feel like a cell in its own right. Carlton missed her lazy nights in with her wife, but until she'd done her bit to stem the tide, she'd never be able to settle. Clara understood. If she hadn't, she'd never have stayed married to her for this long.

Wilson's eyes were framed with dark circles, and stubble was beginning to grow along his neck and face. "We've still got that thug we arrested in Brixton," he said, leaning heavily on Carlton's desk. "We can't hold him much longer without charging him. What's the plan?"

Carlton hummed, setting down her pen. "Let's see if he's cracked, shall we?" she said, her voice gruff with fatigue. Her chair scraped on the floor as she stood, leading the way back toward the interview room. They'd left their most recent arrest alone for a good long while, hoping some time alone would bring him round. 

They walked in, sitting opposite him. He was a young lad, the kind that Carlton hated to see getting mixed up in all this. He might have had a bright future, if he'd only avoided falling in with the Murphy clan. As it happened, he hadn't avoided it, and she kept her sympathy to a minimum. Ultimately, at some stage in the game, he had to have made the choice. It was now in her hands to right whatever wrongs came from that. 

"Mr Fleet," she said, flicking open her notebook with an air of disinterest. "Are you feeling more able to talk?"

"I ain't tellin you nothin," he retorted, crossing his arms and throwing himself back against the chair. Wilson and Carlton shared an exasperated glance. 

"Look," Wilson said with a patient smile, leaning forward on the table. "We know you're working for the Murphys. You don't need to tell us that."

Fleet avoided eye contact, fidgeting slightly. It was as good as an admission. Wilson continued calmly: "If you help us out, we can help you out," he said. "The Murphys aren't invincible. We can protect you."

"Ain't no one outside of Soho that can do that," he snapped, tightening his grip around himself.

Carlton looked up, narrowing her eyes. "What's so special about Soho?" she asked.

Fleet blanched. He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes suddenly wide as his brain caught up with his loose tongue. Carlton straightened her posture with intrigue, sensing a lead. "Is there a rival gang there?" she pressed. "A key supplier?"

Fleet made a strange keening noise. "Fuck... Fuck, I shouldn't have said that," he whispered under his breath, eyes going bleary and out-of-focus. "If they find out I told you about - "

He stopped himself again, with a shout of frustration. Wilson swiped a tongue over his lips. "Why would the Murphys not want us to know about a rival gang?" he murmured to Carlton under his breath. She nodded, having thought the same thing. "Surely they'd want us to do their dirty work for them, drive 'em out..."

"No!" the prisoners suddenly shrieked, wild-eyed. "You can't!"

"Can't what?" Carlton said harshly. She half-stood, leaning over the table to jab a finger toward his chest. "Listen here, kid, we've got a job to do. We protect people, even people like you. You either help us all out and tell us what you know, or we throw you back out on the street and see how you fare on your own. So what's it gonna be?"

Fleet stared at her, wide-eyed, and barely noticed the way Wilson smirked appreciatively. Carlton's office politics were perpetually rusty, but she had always played an awesome bad cop. The overheard lightbulb buzzed in the silence, like an approaching swarm of insects, as Fleet's mind raced. 

"If I start givin' you names, I'm a dead motherfucker," he said, gripping the edge of a table until his knuckles turned white. 

"Police protective custody is very effective," Wilson said, stepping into his customary 'good cop' role. "Witness protection will also be available."

He took a shaky breath, dropping his hands into his lap. Carlton sat down again, seeing the way his defences were dropping. "Fine. Fine, but only cause I'm dead either way," he said hoarsely. "It started a few months ago... Miss Murphy got wind of a troublemaker in Soho, running his own operations out of an old bookshop."

"Do you know what he was running?" Wilson asked.

"Vaguely. Drugs, maybe," he said with a shrug. "Hardly anyone knows for sure. It's shady even for us."

"Nice..." Wilson muttered sarcastically under his breath, and Carlton suppressed a smile.

"They started sending enforcers in, trying to shut it down. Nothing worked," he said morosely. "They started going missing, or coming back with this... this hollow look in their eye. Some guys didn't even remember what happened to them. Some do, but they can only sorta mutter stuff about the shop, and ain't no one can make sense of it."

"Worst thing is," he continued, sounding suddenly distant, "I don't even know how many guys we lost in Soho. They just vanished. Y'ever heard of Bernie? Bernie Appleton?"

Carlton's eyebrows shot up. They'd been on his tail for years, and he'd been dodging arrest even before she'd picked up his case. The thought of finally bringing him to justice made her heart flutter. "Yes," she said quickly.

"He was the first to go," he said. Carlton's enthusiasm was ripped from under her, and even Wilson looked perturbed. 

"I heard he was built like a tank," Wilson said in disbelief. "How'd they take him down?"

"No idea," he said, shrugging. "One day he was at the top of his game, the next he was gone. He had a baby, too, and that disappeared as well, sometime late January. Lemme tell ya, it takes an even bigger monster to do that. I mean, killin' babies? That's just sick."

"You're certain they were both killed?" Carlton said, privately holding out some hope for the child. She noted down the rough date of its disappearance. 

"Oh, yeah. There's a snake in that shop, see," he said, leaning closer to them as if talking to old friends. "Rumour has it that if you start askin' too many questions, you're reptile food. Bernie was probably too big for it to swallow in one go, but it woulda managed his kid just fine. Like an appetiser, y'know?"

Wilson paled, looking away. He'd seen his fair share of horror in this line of work, but it never got easier when it was children who were suffering. Carlton shared his disgust. No matter how sensational a story it was, though, it could still just be talk. It could still be just a horror story, intended to intimidate. All the bosses had a trademark, something to make them bigger and badder than the guy across the street. She turned a calculating gaze onto Fleet.

"Tell us about the people running the shop," she said, making a brief note about the snake and Bernie Appleton's supposed death. It was one more wanted criminal to check off her list, at least. 

"Urgh... All right," he said reluctantly. "The shop's owned by this old dude called Mr Fell. White hair, bow tie, professor-lookin' fella."

Carlton's jaw dropped. It didn't often happen, but there it was. She knew Mr Fell; they'd met once or twice before, when there had been a break-in close to his shop. After a few misunderstandings, she'd come to regard him as a pleasant acquaintance, and she always waved at him if she caught his eye across the street. She looked over at Wilson, finding a similarly incredulous expression on his face. He'd actually continued to visit the shop a few times after work, just to chat, and Mr Fell had always been achingly sincere. 

"You don't mean... Mr Fell, from AZ Fell & Co?" he said, frowning at the man across the table.

He snapped his fingers. "Yeah, that's the one. Are you onto him already?" he said, then gave a snort of laughter. "Good luck with that." 

"Are you certain he's involved?" Carlton pressed. "What about his husband?"

She'd always harboured a certain level of suspicion about Mr Crowley. It wouldn't surprise her to find him running something illicit right under his husband's nose...

"Oh, AJ? Yeah, he's a nasty piece o' work, he is," he said, pulling a face. "But he's just the lackey. Fell's the head honch, no question. He runs the show, and his husband's just along for the ride. He probably gets off on it - that, or he's just screwing whoever's at the top of the food chain. These days, that's definitely Mr Fell."

"Could you tell us anything more about that?" Carlton said, adding a heading in her notes. It was dubious, but they had to explore all avenues. Criminals had been known to hide in the plain sight, and psychopaths were especially adept at it. 

"Not really. All of Soho is off limits, according to the Murphys. It's Mr Fell's territory now," he said with a shrug. "We're supposed to protect him, too. We ain't allowed to grass on Fell any more than we are on the Murphys."

"Right..." Carlton said after a stunned moment, letting out a long breath. She stared at the paper beneath her pen. How to word this...?

Wilson looked nervously toward the shop. "You sure about this, Carlton?" he said.

"Sure. Just talk like you always do," she said, straightening out his jacket. He was in civilian clothes, supposedly visiting the shop on his day off. She'd have gone herself, but Wilson was a more familiar face. "Keep an eye out, though. If things start to go south, make your excuses and get out of there. You'd better not go playing the hero."

"What, me?" he said, rolling his eyes. He had at least three knife wounds from doing exactly that.

"I'm serious. Cases come and go, but there's no replacement for a decent partner," she said firmly, fixing him with a humourless glare.

"Let me guess - if I die, I'm dead to you?" he said, grinning. Her lips curled into a reluctant smile.

"You're an idiot. Get out there and gather some evidence," she said, giving him a shove in the right direction. "Get something concrete and I'll buy you a pint."

"Two?" he bargained, lingering by the street corner.

"One, and a slice of Clara's apple pie," she said. He mulled it over, decided that it was a very worthy trade-off, and they shook on it. 

The bell jingled sharply overhead. No matter how many times he came in here, there was always that sense of unease hanging around. It tended to dissipate once Mr Fell turned up and got chatting, but never before. He sauntered in casually, waiting for him to appear. The dust was curiously undisturbed, like always, and he was beginning to grow accustomed to the smell. 

"Can I - oh!" Mr Fell said, his passive-aggressive stance immediately relaxing as he recognised him. "Mr Wilson, what a pleasant surprise. What brings you here?"

"It's my day off," he said, finding it easy to smile at him. Memories still lingered of his grandfather, who had been a very similar man to Mr Fell (in all but that lingering hint of power, dancing around the edges, something he hadn't noted until now...) 

"Oh, and you're spending it here?" he said, vaguely surprised and clearly a little flattered. "Why, Mr Wilson, you know I'm always happy to have you, but surely you'd prefer something a smidge more... engaging, perhaps. Could I recommend a nice lunch, or a show of some sort?"

He shook his head, leaning naturally against a shelf. "Hey, if you're offering," he joked. Mr Fell immediately began to splutter, unsure how to politely contradict him, and he had to laugh. "That was a joke, Mr Fell. You can relax."

He let out a long sigh of relief. "Oh thank heavens," he sighed, hand over his heart. 

As he shook off the last vestiges of surprise, Wilson sharply remembered why he was here. This man could be a child-murdering, drug-trafficking crime boss... and yet somehow, he doubted that. He began to make idle small talk, watching how Mr Fell absent-mindedly accepted his presence and forgot all about his previous protests. He bustled about the shop with a directionless purpose. Every movement was carefully marshalled, precise, and perfectly aware of his surroundings; he never so much as bumped a stack of books, or knocked a shelf. Wilson hadn't met many mob bosses personally, but from what he knew, they weren't usually the refined antiquarian sort. There was a chance old Fell had a wild side, of course - I mean, just look at who he married - but not _that_ wild. There was a fine line between kinks and organised crime. 

"Where's Anthony?" Wilson asked as Fell aimlessly reordered his collection of Bronte. 

"Come to think of it, I'm not sure," he replied. That struck him as odd. Married couples didn't live in one another's pockets, true, but they usually had some clue where the other might be. If they didn't, they at least had the good grace to be concerned. He distinctly recalled when Clara, Carlton's wife, didn't answer her phone all day, sending his partner into a frantic anxiety until she got home (turns out, Clara had only broken her phone).

"At work, maybe?" he suggested, receiving a noncommittal hum of affirmation in response. Sensing an opportunity to gather clues, he pressed on. "What does he do for work?"

Aziraphale hesitated. What _did_ Crowley do? He didn't work for Hell anymore, and he didn't bother much with spreading chaos these days. He only pulled the odd few pranks, some far more disruptive than others, but he guessed that 'local menace' wasn't an acceptable job title to give in conversation. 

"Um..." he said, keenly aware that his prolonged hesitation was becoming odd. "He - He works for me, I suppose."

"Really?" Wilson said, standing up straighter. He may have his reservations about declaring Mr Fell a criminal, but he needed evidence one way or another first. "Doing what?"

"Well, I - erm - silly little errands, really," he said, hurrying back and forth with armfuls of books, trying to give himself time to come up with something that walked the line between truthful and believable. "He fetches lunch, provides the transport, that sort of thing."

"Sounds like a pretty easy-going job," he said, watching his agitated movements back and forth. It was the first time he remembered seeing the dust being kicked up, drifting through the light beams from the windows.

"Oh, I keep him on his toes, don't you worry," he said, with a wry smile. "Even he forgets, sometimes, that I'm not as soft as people so often assume."

Wilson's skin suddenly broke out in goosebumps. It was inexplicable, but the sensation barrelled into him like a steam train. There was a chilling truth in that statement, undeniable and almost metallic in the air. It spoke to his soul, rather than his senses. Something flickered in his bright blue eyes, peering over his spectacles like the flash of a wildfire on the horizon, an impending disaster that would ebb and flow, turning this way and that on the whim of the wind. The question was: was it coming closer, or moving away? Wilson's stomach twisted as he realised that he wouldn't know until it was upon him. 

"Mr Wilson, my dear boy?" his voice snapped him back to reality, away from the primeval fear of a gathering storm. "Are you all right? You've gone terribly pale."

He shook himself, preferring a weak smile. "Yeah, fine," he said. He sucked in a deep breath. "Mustn't have been drinking enough water today..."

"Why didn't you say so?" he cried, withdrawing back into the skin of a docile bookkeeper, as if his multitudinous eyes had not just been peering through the cracks in his facade at the funny little pink creature in his shop. He grasped Wilson by the arm, guiding him toward the back. "Come and sit down, dear boy, have some tea. I won't see you leave this shop until you have some colour in your cheeks again."

He tried to protest, to no avail. Fell was stronger than he looked by a long shot, and he didn't want to make too much of an effort to wrench himself from his grip. He'd been ingrained with the sudden fear of offending this man. 

Crowley could hear the shuffling, breathing and speaking from his low vantage point. He'd been perfectly happy where he was, spread out underneath the sofa. His snake form was like a fluffy blanket to him, perfect to wrap himself up in on a lazy day like this. If he'd had eyelids, they would have been dropping low. His tongue flickered out, idly tasting the air. He'd cleared out the dust from under the sofa earlier, just so he could squirrel himself away, hence his irritation when the back room door swung open.

"Have a seat, Mr Wilson, I'll be right with you," Aziraphale said cheerily, and his footsteps sent distinct vibrations across the floorboards.

There was another voice, one Crowley recognised. It was his husband's young detective friend, the type who thought sarcasm was the equivalent of charm and that morals were still the backbone of the police. Personally, Crowley only agreed with one of those statements. He tasted the air again. He was nervous; his anxiety swam in the air like dust particles, restless and pungent. Crowley's long body shifted slightly, disturbed by his arrival. The seat was dipping low over his head, beginning to rest on top of one of his coils. Internally grumbling, he hissed, and began to move.

Wilson heard the hiss first. He'd at first thought it was the rasp of a turning page, or running water in the next room. Then, something nudged his foot. He looked down, and took a moment to compute what the large black shape was. 

He lurched back, snatching his feet off the floor with a shout. Suitably amused, Crowley slithered further out from under the sofa, repositioning himself onto the low coffee table. Wilson evened out his breathing, eyeing the snake with mistrust. This part of the urban legend was true, at least. It certainly looked big enough to swallow a man, its body thicker than his thigh in some places and too long to squeeze neatly onto the table. Glancing over to the door where Mr Fell had gone, he took out his phone, opening the camera app. 

The shutter sound alerted Crowley to the attention. He turned his head sharply, facing the detective. There was a tense standoff. "Stay still for sec, mate," Wilson whispered, slowly raising his camera again. "Say cheese. Or... Say mice?"

It took a hell of a lot of Crowley's self-control not to actually say cheese. He'd be in the doghouse for weeks if he revealed himself to a human, so the best he could do was act a little weird. As Wilson took more pictures for evidence, Crowley began to pose. He started with a simple head-tilt, before moving into a classic "snake charmer" pose, and even twisted to look at the lens upside-down. Wilson smiled, adjusting the zoom on the camera.

"You are a friendly little guy, aren't you?" he said. "You're actually quite nice, for a snake."

There it was, that nasty little four-letter word... It plucked a nerve. Given a few more facial muscles, Crowley would have twitched. Still, he couldn't just let it slide. He was still a demon. With a rasp of scales against varnished wood, he tensed into a strike position, hissing furiously. Wilson jumped, taking a step back, but didn't lower the phone. Irked, Crowley began to turn up the heat. He began to open his mouth, letting his fangs flash through in the yellow lamplight. He lunged forward, stretching his jaws slightly wider than an earthly snake would strictly be capable of, intentionally snapping them shut just short of the camera lens. 

Wilson spluttered, falling backward onto the armchair behind him. He lay there for a moment, stunned, staring wide-eyed at the serpent. Crowley withdrew, satisfied with his revenge, and coiled himself up more comfortably on the table. With a slight tremor in his hand, Wilson hit stop on the video on his phone. He'd caught the near-bite on tape, and as far as he was concerned, that was proof positive of an extremely aggressive animal in the shop. He'd just tucked the phone away again when Mr Fell returned, tea tray in hand.

"Oh! I see you've met my scaled lodger," he said, having not heard the commotion from the next room. "Where was he hiding, in the end?"

Wilson took a teacup from the tray, finding it already full. "Under the sofa," he said, resting his elbow on the armrest to stop it shaking. "Don't you keep track of him somehow...?"

"He's his own creature. It's only fair that he roams free," he said, leaning down to stroke the snake's head. To Wilson's amazement, the serpent leaned into the touch without a hint of aggression. "He's quite a friendly soul, if you respect his space."

"But he seems fine with you getting close," he pointed out, sipping his tea. He appreciated the burn down his throat; it was as close to a stiff drink as he could get at the moment. 

"Well, of course. He loves me," he said proudly, settling on the sofa where Wilson had been a moment before. 

Wilson had certainly had a stressful visit, but he'd seen nothing damning. He and Carlton had made the mistake of making assumptions about Mr Fell before, only to find that he may be more complicated than first glance would suggest. With the video of the snake attack, he could probably make a case for animal control to conduct an inspection, and possibly the trading standards agency. Customers used the shop, after all, and a giant free-roaming serpent was undoubtedly a safety hazard. What if a mother brought her children in, and the snake decided it was feeling a bit peckish? It was certainly big enough to swallow a human, and no person in their right mind would be on the lookout for such an animal in an antique bookshop, of all places. With a shiver, Wilson recalled Mr Fleet's testimony. Rumour had it that the snake was known for eating children already; now he'd seen the beast for himself, the story didn't seem quite so far-flung.

He cleared his throat. "What do you feed him?" he asked, gesturing to the snake. 

Aziraphale opened his mouth to answer, and again found himself hesitating. "Erm - well, plenty of things," he said, smiling nervously and beginning to gesture vaguely at thin air. "They're carnivorous, of course, snakes are - are definitely big meat-eaters. Yes. So, meat."

He nodded firmly to himself, sipping his tea and anxiously avoiding eye contact. He hoped it wasn't obvious that he'd reasoned that out for himself on the spot, though the detective was beginning to suspect. "When did he last eat?" he asked, prodding at the tender nerve he'd exposed.

"Some time ago," he said, relieved to finally be asked something he could answer honestly. "At the tail end of January, I should think."

Wilson's gut clenched. Bernie Appleton and his baby had vanished at around that time. He remembered seeing it in Carlton's notes, and in the audio transcript of the interrogation. He nodded, downing the rest of his tea. "Look, Mr Fell, sorry to cut this short, but I think I'd better go," he said. He didn't often chicken out of these things, but the implications here were just sick. He couldn't stand it anymore. 

"Oh, are you certain?" he said, setting his teacup down neatly. "It feels like you just got here."

"Yup. I'm sure," he said, getting up and making for the shopfront. "Nice seeing you, Mr Fell. I'll drop in sometime next week, yeah?"

"You're always welcome, dear boy, as you know," he replied, a little worried that he'd done something to offend the poor lad. As the door swung shut, he quietly turned to Crowley. "Was it something I said?"

"Nah," the serpent replied. "Prob'ly sssomething to do with me trying to bite him."

"Oh, _Crowley_ ," he complained, rolling his eyes.

As Wilson hurried out of the shop, he happened to trip slightly, knocking something off a stack of books. He muttered a few curses. A basket had fallen, the balled-up pieces of greaseproof paper and string scattering over the floorboards. It looked like it had been on its way into the bin, but had been delayed; probably by his own arrival, come to think of it. He quickly gathered them up again, replacing them in the basket. As he put it back on the stack of books, a particular word caught his eye: _Murphy._ His heart skipped a beat. With a glance over his shoulder, he plucked a piece of crumpled paper from the pile, unfurling it. His eyes scanned over the note, widening with every word. 

"Well, fuck me..." he muttered, stuffing the apology note from the notorious Murphy siblings into his pocket. He rushed out of the shop; Carlton needed to see this. 

Clyde got word first. Fleet had been one of his men, and the arrest made plenty of ears prick up, especially when he wasn't released within 48 hours. It was becoming swiftly very obvious that Fleet had let something slip, and whatever it was, it was worth keeping him. The Murphy siblings both had eyes and ears in the police force, here and there, helping them evade the likes of Carlton and Wilson. It was harder to make the police actually act against their colleagues like they used to, but gutless spies came cheap and kept secrets well. 

When Clyde heard that Fleet had blabbed about Mr Fell, he almost had a panic attack. Utter, all-consuming terror was his first response, churning his stomach and constricting his airways, until he slapped himself around the face. Just because the police had Fell's name didn't mean they had bothered him just yet. He called Morgan, asking if she'd caught wind of anything unauthorised going on in Soho. Their men patrolled the borders, picking off the small-time criminals and driving away the troublemakers, and feasibly could have noticed something. 

"No," she said, immediately on-guard. "Why?"

"Fleet's been arrested. He told 'em about Fell and AJ," he said through gritted teeth, his knuckles turning white on the edge of his kitchen island. 

She cursed. "Well - so what?" she said. "If it's the coppers who go getting themselves lost in Tír na nÓg, why should we care?"

"And what if it gets traced back to one of our guys, huh? What then, smartarse?" he snapped. The line fell silent. "We gotta fix this, make them look somewhere else."

"I could amp up our trade along the Thames," she suggested. She gave a long sigh. "Uh... d'ya think we should give them another basket of offerings, or would that be too suspicious?"

"Couldn't hurt, I guess..." he said, rubbing a hand over his face. "Leave it to me. I still got our gran's old book."

Carlton was the first to volunteer for the stakeout. She had been the only one, in fact; she had dragged Wilson along on principle... or that's what she said, at least. She knew damn well she wouldn't stand a whole night in a car with anyone else - apart from perhaps her wife - without committing a serious crime herself. By the time anything interesting happened, it was pitch black and utterly silent in Soho. 

She'd parked on the corner, out of view from the bookshop windows. She could see the front door, and the shadows moving back and forth behind the glass. When Wilson had shown her the note, she could hardly believe it. She'd sent it to be brushed for prints and DNA and, sure enough, the Murphys were all over it.

... However, lab also picked up skin samples from an unknown reptile, and something they they speculated could be a bird; those tests had been completely inconclusive, which then cast doubt on the Murphy DNA findings. It was frustrating, and it meant that the note alone wasn't enough to make an arrest. There was enough margin for error in the results that any mob boss would be able to weasel his way out of a conviction in court and, if Mr Fell was half the mastermind he was built up to be, he was bound to be a slippery bastard. Carlton needed evidence. In her heart of hearts, she knew that the chances of her catching Mr Fell were minuscule, but the open case would be her legacy. Another detective after her would work their fingers to the bone just waiting for him to slip up, and then they'd have him.

She sat back, glancing at Wilson in the passenger seat. He was asleep, with a half-eaten burger resting on his leg. She allowed herself a wry, tired smile, and moved the food onto the dashboard. The last thing she needed was ketchup in the footwell. Well, that and Wilson didn't always stop working to get a proper meal in, and she knew full well he wouldn't bother getting another if he dropped that one. Crossing her arms, she looked back at the shop. A flicker of disappointment had sparked up in her gut; she'd honestly liked Mr Fell. He was part of a dying breed of unapologetically, unironically, unpretentiously quirky people who were just happy to be alive, and she'd found him very refreshing. Knowing that he may also be part of a virus of organised crime felt like exactly the kind of catch she'd come to expect from this city. It had been too good to be true, anyway. 

Something banged against the car window. She cried out, her seatbelt pinning her to the seat as she tried to jolt away. Wilson lurched awake. 

"Whuh - ?"

Carlton breathed heavily, looking at the grinning face on the other side of the glass. Crowley tapped on the window with one long nail with a faux-friendly smile, clearly wanting to talk. Resisting the urge to start the car and run over his toes on her way down the street, Carlton rolled down the dwindle slightly. She didn't roll it far enough for a barrel of a gun to get through; she suspected Crowley to be the type to use a friendly face and a silencer to solve most of his problems. 

"Hello," Crowley said, tilting his head with an obnoxious sneer that said he knew exactly what they were up to. "I haven't seen you since you accused my husband of cheating on me, with me."

She gave a tight-lipped smile. "Figured I'd save face," she said.

"What, by lurking on the street corner outside our house like a couple of stalkers?" he said, arching a brow and looking past her at Wilson. He leant against the roof of the car nonchaltonly. "Not a great way to go about it."

"Hey, Anthony, don't get the wrong idea," Wilson said, finally clear-headed enough to make an attempt at diplomacy. "We were just - "

"I don't have the wrong idea. I know a stakeout when I see one," he interrupted bluntly. "Leave me and my husband alone, and we'll leave you alone. That's how we work. We'll even keep things quiet around here for you, if you like."

They shared a glance. "What are you saying?" Carlton urged, eyeing his dark glasses suspiciously. Why wear sunglasses in the dead of night, anyway? 

"Nothing specific or incriminating," he replied, clicking his tongue and possibly shooting her a wink. It was hard to tell. "Run along now, file your reports or whatever it is you do. Cheerio."

He patted the roof twice as he sauntered across the road, stepping inside the bookshop. Carlton glared after him. She started the ignition, revving the engine spitefully loud a few times before swerving out into the road. Wilson let out a cry, thrown off-balance against the door. 

"Look, Carlton, I know you don't like making mistakes but - " he said, gritting his teeth as she took a pothole head-on. " - could you at least let me drive if you're that mad about it?"

"I can drive fine," she snapped, but took his point. She slowed down, taking a quieter road and pulling up beside an old corner shop. She paused, took a deep breath, and felt anger boiling up again regardless. She gave a harsh shout, slamming her hands against the wheel. "Dammit!"

"Yeah, I know. Anthony hasn't changed much, has he?" he replied, rubbing his temples. "He still likes making a show of PDA in the shop, too."

"Doesn't Mr Fell bother stopping him anymore?" she asked, slumping back in her seat, grateful for the distraction. 

"I reckon he's starting to like it," he replied, taking a bite of his burger from the dashboard. 

As he chewed, Carlton stared at the other side of the street. The shadows hung like velvet curtains across the buildings, masking their features. Movement twitched. She sat up slightly, attentive. A large man with short-cropped hair passed beneath a streetlight, cradling a nondescript basket close to his chest like a priceless artefact. Her jaw dropped as the light shone on his face, illuminating the pale scars and dark tattoos speckled over his skin. He was a distinct sight, and rarer than a polar bear in the Savannah. Clyde Murphy's tactic to avoid capture had never been legal manoeuvring; he simply did not show his face in public, at least not alone. Carlton blindly lashed out toward Wilson, punching his arm without moving her eyes from the Murphy brother.

"Hey! What was that for?" Wilson complained. He followed her line of sight just in time to catch a glimpse of him before he faded back into the shadows. "Holy mother of..."

"Looks like tonight won't be such a waste after all," Carlton said with a manic grin, popping open the car door and sliding out onto the darkened street. 

Aziraphale had a bad habit of leaving the blinds open at the shop. It wasn't that he was careless, he just so often got distracted, and the shop windows were perfectly engineered to be ignored. Stacks of books framed the edges, shrinking the view into the street and making the shop look far too cluttered and small to be of any interest to any casual passer-by. The glass itself was slightly frosted over with age, the edges of the panes always dusty, and they were always completely opaque with ice come the winter months. There was also a little magic at work on the frames, blocking most of the daily street-sound out of Aziraphale's little sanctuary.

Crowley watched him move back and forth across the shop floor, in a haze of love. Aziraphale rearranged the books every evening, making sure that no pesky customer would come back for a second attempt at buying anything in particular. He may not realise it, but it was exactly the kind of mischief that Crowley himself might dream up, just to get on people's nerves. The demon admired his work, especially when he decided to reverse an entire shelf so their pages faced out rather than the spines, until he just couldn't keep his hands off him any longer. He stood up, wrapping his arms tightly around Aziraphale from behind. 

"Oh!" the angel said, instinctively leaning into him. "Hello there, Crowley. Do you need something?"

"Don't play dumb. You know what," he mumbled, tightening his grip and beginning to pepper kisses along his neck. 

"Hm... remind me," he said slyly. 

In a flurry of movement, he was spun around and pushed up against a shelf. He gasped as Crowley immediately fell upon him again, pulling him close, pressing his lips anywhere he could find bare skin. His eyelids flickered shut, missing the flurry of movement from beyond the window.

Clyde had just reached the shop, thankful that he would soon be able to leave the basket on the doorstep and disappear again. He hated doing this. It was bloody cold at this time of night, and he was completely unguarded. It was a risk, but he'd weighed off that it was probably even worse to have any of his underlings start asking questions about why he was leaving gift baskets for random gay men in Soho. It was bound to give the wrong impression. 

He readjusted his grip on the basket, standing beside the shop window. Out of habit, he glanced over his shoulder, and froze. His eyes immediately landed on the two silhouettes coming up the path. He watched them, motionless, slowly reaching inside his jacket. The weight of a pistol set his coat askew, but there were some precautions he never left the house without. 

Wilson's eyes were sharper than Carlton's. He caught the movement first. "Police!" he shouted, drawing his taser. "Hands where we can see them!"

Clyde cursed, throwing down the basket. The glass inside cracked, spilling milk and honey through the wicker and onto the pavement. He drew his gun. Carlton cursed, pulling her own taser from her belt. She was too far away to hit him; one or both of them had to get closer. She grinned despite herself; this was good. Clyde was resisting arrest, carrying an illegal firearm _and_ attempting to assault police officers! It was a justified arrest, complete with a full set of charges, guaranteed. It was like Christmas. 

Aziraphale was still blind to the commotion outside. His bow tie was somewhere on the floor, his shirt collar hanging open as Crowley worked his way down his neck and onto his shoulder. The angel's heart fluttered. He grasped Crowley's jacket, breathing fast, and far too distracted to notice the muzzle flash very close to his window. Gunshots were no louder than a buzzing filament bulb through the magical soundproofing. As Aziraphale shrugged off his waistcoat, Wilson flew briefly past window, tackling Clyde to the ground. Carlton appeared a moment later, brandishing handcuffs, narrowly dodging a misfire from Wilson's taser. She cursed violently, falling against the window with a muffled thump. At this point, Aziraphale and Crowley were making out against the shelf so ferociously that the world could, quite literally, be falling to ruin around them and they might never even think to break apart. 

Word of her brother's arrest reached Morgan quickly. The when and where turned out to be fairly straightforward, with her police informant, but the how was less forthcoming. Two detectives had been on a stakeout outside AZ Fell's, something had gone sideways, and next thing they knew they had the infamous Clyde Murphy in custody. There was a whisper that AJ had spotted them staking out his home. 

Morgan sat on the sofa of her brother's vacant apartment. She'd need to be here to make sure no one turned up waving a warrant; she had men positioned all through the building, just to make sure. They'd had plans, if this ever happened. Whichever one of them was left behind would take charge, be ruthless, and begin destroying evidence before anything could come to trail. Somehow, Morgan was doubting it would make a difference. 

He'd been right. The fairies had found out, somehow, that Fleet had slipped up. She and Clyde had made the mistake of explicitly promising to stay out of their land, and now they'd encroached - even slightly, even indirectly - and paid the price. This was punishment. A new stream of anxiety crashed into her, rocking her like a sailboat upon storm-ridden waves; what if Clyde hadn't been arrested? What if he'd been taken, and replaced with a doppelgänger? Was that possible? She could have sworn she remembered Pa telling them both, as children, to beware the fairy rings and quiet forests beyond the city, lest they be stolen away. She shivered, running into Clyde's bedroom.

The book on the fair folk was on his bedside table. She snatched it up, sitting cross-legged on his bed and flipping through its worn pages. The scent of parchment hit her like a plume of cigarette smoke. She skimmed over the writing, eventually finding her proof: changelings. Fairies sometimes stole children, and replaced them with not-quite-correct copies of them, like a cuckoo planting its young in the nest of an unsuspecting smaller bird. She bit her lip. That was children, though... They wouldn't do it to a grown man, surely? Her eyes drifted to the next page.

"The fair folk can be bargained with," she murmured, translating the old Irish text out loud. "Beware, fool, if you should dare to venture into their court... They promise nothing without a price, and give nothing more than what they promised."

In the day that passed since the scuffle outside the shop, nothing had happened. Aziraphale and Crowley had awoken the next morning none the wiser, only remarking briefly on the strange puddle of milk on the pavement. The basket had been taken in as evidence. 

Aziraphale sat by the counter, quite pleased. It had been a quiet day so far, with not a single customer, and it was almost mid-morning. He leafed idly through a new manuscript he'd picked up, wondering where he could store it. It was far too nice to go on top of one of his stacks, but not quite nice enough for the shelves upstairs...

A light knock made him look up. He frowned. There was a moment of silence in which he'd decided he must have been mistaken, and decided to ignore it. Only a few seconds passed before the noise returned more insistently. Aziraphale hummed in confusion, taking off his reading glasses and heading over to the door. Had he forgotten to flip the sign to open this morning? It would certainly explain the slow business.

But no, he hadn't. The shop was definitely open, but there was also definitely a young woman standing on the front step. He eyed her suspiciously as he approached, wondering if this was some sort of trap to lure him out. He couldn't sense anything inhuman. The woman was short and lean, with a strong jaw and hard eyes which had been softened with worry. No, not worry. Fear. 

Taking pity on her, Aziraphale opened the door. "Hello?" he said, poking his head out onto the street. She gave a start as she saw his face, taking a step back and almost tripping over herself. "Oh, dear me, did I startle you? My apologies. Is there, um... anything I could help you with?"

Her jaw worked up and down, struggling to form words. "Do - Do you know me?" she stuttered out, hugging herself tightly. If he didn't know any better, he'd say she wasn't used to being out in public much.

"I'm afraid not," he said. He paused, feeling rather silly. He can't have forgotten someone entirely, surely... "Was there a reason you knocked? The sign does say open, dear."

She swallows hard. "Um... I didn't want to seem disrespectful," she said, almost in a whisper. She was struggling to meet his eyes. "M- My name is Morgan Murphy. I've come to talk to you about - about Clyde, my brother."

"The Murphy siblings?" he said, recognition suddenly lighting up his features. That didn't make her feel much better. "Oh, I remember, of course. You're the young dears who sent us that lovely basket, yes?"

"Yep..."

"Well, thank you. I did especially enjoy the pastries, and apples have always been a favourite of my dear husband," he said with a beaming smile. As if remembering something, his face turned suddenly stern. "Now, you aren't here to start causing any more trouble, are you? Because if you are, I shall have to - "

"No! No, no, of course not, by God!" she cried, with a lightning flash of terror in her eyes that wiped the frown off Aziraphale's face in an instant. "Please, Mr Fell... I've come to - to strike a bargain."

A little bemused, but intrigued, he stepped aside. "Do come in, dear."

She hesitated for a moment, glancing over her shoulder and taking a deep breath before she crossed the threshold. She expected to break out into a cold sweat as she stepped inside, but felt nothing. The faint mouldy smell was the only indication that she was no longer in the same world as the bustling street. To her mind, this was Tír na nÒg. Aziraphale beckoned for her to follow, leading her through to the back room. Crowley lounged over an armchair, jumping up sharply as he levelled his gaze at Morgan.

"Angel!" he cried, jumping to his feet defensively. "What's she doing here?"

"She says she's here to strike a deal," he replied calmly, noting the way Morgan flinched when Crowley moved. "Sit down, dear. We can be civil about this."

With a slight twitch of his lip, Crowley sat stiffly on the armrest of the chair. Morgan edged around the room, eventually settling on the sofa, and intensely aware of the calculating gaze following her from behind those dark glasses. Her skin prickled. She was out of her depth, in a foreign place, where she had no power and no bargaining chips. Aziraphale gently set a tea tray down on the low coffee table, much to her surprise. She hadn't even noticed him leave the room. A white china tea set decorated the tray, alongside a selection of pink iced biscuits and bite-sized blueberry muffins. It was so inviting that she almost took one, but stopped. She drew her hand back, tucking it under her arm as she remembered one of the most important rules of visiting the fairy realm: do not accept the food or drink being offered to you, or you will never leave. 

"Not hungry?" said Crowley aggressively, his suspicious gaze locked onto her. 

"No. Thank you though," she said, dry-mouthed. She looked hopefully at Aziraphale, who settled in the armchair beside Crowley. He seemed the nicer one; perhaps he was the fairy queen of this court. 

"So," he said, with a kind smile. "What can we do for you, my dear?"

She swallowed her nerves. "My brother was arrested," she said. She fidgeted slightly. All this respectfulness, meekness, all this fear... it was totally alien to her. "I... I guessed that... you might be able to help me have him released."

"How'd you come up with that?" Crowley said, tilting his head slowly. 

"Well... I have a - a book," she said, looking anywhere apart from at the dark lenses. "All about your kind, the rules of engagement, and the Creideamh Sí... It says that you - fairies, I mean - make deals with humans sometimes."

Aziraphale took a moment to process that. She thought he was a fairy; true, he had been called that plenty of times in London, but it usually meant something very different. He blinked, and opened his mouth to speak when Crowley's hand clapped onto his shoulder, silencing him.

"And here I thought we'd left the old tales behind," he said, squeezing Aziraphale's shoulder as if to say _play along_. "We ought to have known, after you made that offering."

"Was it... good enough?" she asks tentatively, delicately raising her gaze to him.

"It was alright," he said, shrugging. "Could have done with some good wine in there."

"Don't be ungrateful, Crowley," Aziraphale tutted. He turned to Morgan. "Tell us everything, dear girl. We appear to be rather out of step with one another at the moment."

She nodded, taking a deep breath and knowing better than to argue with a possible fairy queen. It was an interesting play-on-words; just as the books represented trees by a tenuous technicality, Mr Fell's general demeanour lent itself to not-quite-lying about what he was. He could very well claim to be a queen or a fairy, and people would look no further than his manicured nails, prim voice and (of course) his husband before drawing a conclusion that was just short of the truth. It was clever. It was borderline devious; she was dealing with a very smart entity here, she could already tell, as she launched into her story. She laced her explanations with apologies and excuses and breathless pleas for forgiveness, especially when she caught one of their brows begin to crease. 

"... and I know Clyde and I haven't been the greatest in sticking to what we promised but, by God, I - I need him back," she said, sitting right on the edge of her seat. "I don't have much to offer you in return for his freedom, I know... I have money, and a helluva lot of drugs, and weapons, but - "

Aziraphale winced, holding up a hand to stop her babbling. "We have no need for anything of that sort," he said, almost condescendingly. Her heart jolted, worried he was about to ask for her firstborn instead. "You must understand, we are very sorry if your brother has been arrested, but... well, the law is the law. We would need a very good reason to go against it."

She deflated slightly, dragging a hand across her face. She ought to have guessed. Fairies liked rules more than anything, and she should have guessed that these two were no different. Crowley cleared his throat. Tentatively, she looked up again, wondering if he was going to suggest something terrible instead. Judging by the dark clothes and surly expression, he was the bad spirit. She wondered if he was voluntarily married to the fairy queen, or if he had been shackled to him as a way of keeping him under control. It was a bit of both, to be honest, with a bit more love thrown in.

"You could always stop it off," he said, reclining back. "The crime, the drugs trade, the gang violence. We'd have no reason to worry about releasing him then."

"Apart from the crimes he's already committed!" Aziraphale cut in indignantly, replacing his cup in his saucer. "You can't expect me to just ignore all that, my dear."

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, figured you'd say that. I reckon she's got something on her that'll help change your mind, though, angel," he said, shooting Morgan a wicked smile. She sat up straighter, breath catching. What could possibly be that desirable to a fae...? "I can smell the old paper from here. Hand it over."

She frowned. "Wot?"

"The book, the old book you have in your jacket," Crowley said impatiently, holding out his hand. "Gimme."

He was right. Her family's old book of Irish myths was in her pocket, the one who had brought her this far in the first place. It was in her hand before she registered that she'd even reached into her pocket, its rough binding a familiar sensation against her skin. She reluctantly placed it in the demon's hand.

She was surprised to see the awe-filled gaze on Mr Fell's face as his husband presented the book to him. He took it gently, as if it might fall apart in his hands, running his beautifully manicured fingertips across the cover. He flicked it open, a delighted expression flickering over his face as he took in the smell, drinking in the old hand-written Irish script.

"Oh, this is... this is exquisite," he murmured, leafing through it with the utmost care. "This will do nicely, very nicely, I have just the spot for it. What a beautiful specimen..."

"Enough to make you overlook a couple of petty crimes?" Crowley asked knowingly.

"Hardly. But, if they both promised not to do it again, I suppose I could... turn a blind eye, yes," he said, wiggling slightly in his seat and pretending to take the moral high ground. Metaphorically speaking, he was in the moral ditch, but he didn't really mind. He'd done worse for a book. "Well, Ms Murphy? Is that agreeable to you?"

She sucked in a sharp breath. "You'll get Clyde released from police custody?"

"On the condition that you will both renounce this life of crime entirely," he said firmly. He glanced down at his hand. "... and I get to keep this lovely book."

She stuck out her hand. "Deal."

Carlton was filing reports at her desk. For the first time in weeks, she was honestly happy. She’d made the biggest arrest of her career - and it had been a long one - and there didn’t look like any way he could get out of it. Sure, he wasn’t guaranteed to get convicted for all his big-ticket crimes (not yet, at least), but it was a start. If you could get a man like Clyde Murphy in prison once, you could do it again. Men like him were constant reoffenders, so he’d make it easy for them after the first time. 

Wilson burst through her office door. “Seriously?” she sighed, casting a jaded glance over him. “What is this, a police raid?”

He didn’t respond to the joke. “Murphy got bail,” he panted.

“What?” she barked, chair toppling over as she charged around her desk. “This better be a joke, Wilson.”

“It’s not. You’ll never guess who’s at the front desk pushing it through,” he said, falling into step beside her as she stormed down the halls. 

“Don’t tell me it’s...?”

“Mr Fell, and his bastard husband,” he replied sourly. He cracked a smile, nudging her arm in the hopes of alleviating her skyrocketing blood pressure. “I’d be angrier if they weren’t such an irritatingly good couple. They’re like Morticia and Gomez Addams.”

“Oh please,” she scoffed, shooting him a withering side-glance. “They’re Monica and Chandler Bing, _at best_.”

“Agree to disagree,” he replied.

They rounded the corner, horrified to see Clyde already stood in the foyer, no handcuffs in sight. He was speaking in a low voice, shoulders slumped, to Mr Fell. The man in white was a foot shorter than him, but spoke with a commanding air nonetheless. He was clearly very well-accustomed to larger men attempting to intimidate him. As Carlton approached, eyes narrowed, she caught part of their hushed conversation.

“... what did she promise you in return?” Clyde asked in a tremulous whisper.

“Nothing you need worry too much about. It will be good for us all, dear boy,” he replied, patting his arm gently. 

“Morgan will explain what you need to do when you get home,” Crowley cut in, arms tightly crossed. “You should probably get going. Looks like we have company.”

He glanced over his shoulder, seeing the approaching detectives. He nodded, and to everyone’s surprise, gave Aziraphale a shallow bow before he fled out into the street. The angel’s gaze followed him with light bemusement. “What a funny fellow,” he commented, turning to the newcomers. “Detective Carlton, Wilson, what a pleasure.”

“Mr Fell,” she said tightly, crossing her arms. “And Mr Crowley. I didn’t realise you knew Clyde Murphy.”

“We didn’t,” Crowley replied, wrapping an arm possessively around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Not until today.”

“And you bailed him out of custody?” Wilson said sceptically.

“We’re Good Samaritans,” Aziraphale chipped in.

“He’s an extremely dangerous criminal with a long history of violence,” Carlton deadpanned.

“We’re Bad Samaritans,” said Crowley, unabashed. 

“We are nothing of the sort,” Aziraphale said scoldingly. “Carlton, if you would, please don’t worry too much about Mr Murphy. He and his sister will give you no more trouble from now on, I guarantee it.”

“How do you know?” she said dryly, looking him up and down. She didn’t trust him. That sweet, soft exterior was a farce, like a colourful lure to draw an unsuspecting fish to the hook. “Whatever you just did, Mr Fell, I hope you know I’ll be investigating it. It’s not in my job description to take people at their word.”

He gave a wry smile. He and Crowley shared a glance, passing a sort of amused understanding between them, and fixed a half-condescending glance into them both. “Investigate away, by all means,” he said, linking arms with his husband and already turning toward the door. “I shall be _very_ impressed if you find anything.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Godfather Of Soho](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28450872) by [Evillullaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evillullaby/pseuds/Evillullaby)




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